


The Stain on Your Heart

by EvilPeaches



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coping with past trauma, Cunnilingus, Dark, F/M, Healing, M/M, Not Fluff, Past Sexual Abuse, Post Season 8, Queen in the North, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Theon lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 18:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19178881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilPeaches/pseuds/EvilPeaches
Summary: The Queen in the North has been watching him.He’s been watching her.They are not the same people they once were, but perhaps that's fine. The ghost that stands between them should not matter.





	The Stain on Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. All belong to George R. R. Martin.

He’d been injured, after the battle.

They had feared that he would not live, that first dreadful night. But he had lived. He had pulled through, miraculously. Against all odds. He remained bedridden for weeks though and Sansa has found herself at his side ever since.

Sansa has spent so many hours beside him, reading, knitting, sewing new dresses. She waits for him with grief in her heart, because she will not be parted from him, not like this. The maester says that he will be fine, that he will heal, so Sansa waits. She mirrors her mother, who would often sit vigil beside one of her sick children, praying for them to pull through.

When Theon does finally become strong enough to leave the bed, he seems lost, more so than usual. He drifts through Winterfell with a certain listlessness. It breaks her heart because she wants him to feel at home. She wonders if he misses the sea. She hopes he doesn’t, because selfishly, she wants him to remain here with her.

They walk in the godswood together, breathing in the fresh air. Enjoying the company of a kindred spirit, one that has survived so much brokenness and bleeding. “Will you stay?” Sansa asks of him, now crowned Queen in the North. “Will you stay in the North?”

Those eyes of his, deep and endless like the ocean, make her heart stop when he gives her his full attention. “Is that what you want? Do you want me to remain here and forsake my sister?”

Sansa does not quail, does not give. The younger version of her would have given, would have let him walk over her wants. The younger version of Sansa Stark would have been too afraid to say what she wanted, in fear that he didn’t want the same. “I would ask it of you. She does not need you. You are a wolf. You are a Stark and you belong here with me.”

He looks struck, inhaling sharply. She wonders if he enjoys her scented oils, the ones she bathes in. He was mad about girls, once. Now, he barely glances at them, but he does glance at _her_. Sansa takes pride in that.

Theon stares at the weirwood, at the crimson leaves that look like blood. He exhales slowly before giving her his full attention once more. “Then, I will stay.”

And, he does.

* * *

 

* * *

They often walk through Winterfell together, sometimes outside of Winterfell. They both enjoy the freedom of coming and going as they please, for they both have experienced what it is like to be a prisoner.

They have both experienced what it is like to lose the agency of their own bodies.

“You don’t sleep well,” she comments to him one afternoon. “I worry for your health.”

“Don’t trouble yourself with me, Lady Sansa,” Theon says evasively.

He’s always evasive, always seems to try and find ways to redirect conversation. She recognizes it for what it is; his way of maintaining his own control and in his mind, keeping his master pleased with him. These habits of survival have not faded with time.

“You are my friend. I will trouble myself with you as I please,” Sansa says with a cool voice.

And she does. All the time. Against her advisor's wishes. He is the turncloak still, despite all that he has done for her. They have asked her to send him from her side, to return him to Pyke, but _she will not_.

“I dream of _him_ ,” Theon replies sharply, brokenly. “I cannot stop.”

“He’s nothing to me,” she says flatly, fine eyebrows arched. Elegant. “A ghost that has long been laid to rest.”

Theon fidgets uncomfortably. He glances down at his mangled hands, counts his fingers. Scolds himself mentally for counting, because he doesn’t need the reminder of what he has lost. “I wish I could forget so easily, my Lady.”

His voice is so soft and choked, like he has to force the words out of his chest and up his throat. Like he has to pull the words with his very own fingers. Sansa sighs, but does not pity. Theon would not want her pity. The man she knows in her heart was prideful, arrogant, and though he may be absent now, that part of Theon only slumbers.

Hidden far beneath the sea where things are never dead.

“He’s gone. You are alive. You are with me,” she says firmly, wanting him to understand, wanting him to believe.

Theon shakes his head and his curling hair, now growing stronger, falls over his eyes. Hiding his excruciating thousand mile gaze. “He is everywhere. He’s the footsteps in the halls. The laughter in the courtyard. The glint of a blade. A touch on my shoulder. I cannot even sip wine now without thinking of his breath as he whispers to me. _Everything_ is him.”

The Prince of Pyke does not say the words aloud, but Sansa hears it unspoken; _he’s everything to me, because before you came back, he was the only one I had._

This is something Sansa has long figured out, though it had taken her time. She had resented him, back then, for telling on her, for always remaining loyal to the awful man she had been married off to. What she had not understood at the time was that though Bolton had been the harbinger of pain, he was also the only one who could choose to spare Theon of it. Theon had treated him like his entire world, eager to avoid more agony. For years, every moment of every day had been spent thinking of one man and one man only.

What would make him happy? What would make him angry? What are the right words? What are the wrong words? How does he want me to react? _What does he want_? These are all things that Theon had dwelled upon with intense focus, a focus that Sansa had never quite acquired during her time with Bolton.

Now though, Theon inclines his head to Sansa, eyes carefully avoiding hers. A sign of fear and respect, one that grates on Sansa’s nerves. She wants him to be proud again, he’s done wrong in his life, but he’s also suffered and fought to do right. She's forgiven him, this man whose company she keeps.

He turns on his heel and walks away, the cut of his shoulders sharp against the dreary landscape.

Instead of moving forward and helping her build up Winterfell in the aftermath of all the wars, he’s lost in memory, in a nightmare that has long since abandoned him.

* * *

 

* * *

She watches him from the place where her father used to stand, observing his home and his people. Sansa finds herself doing things such as this, mimicking Ned Stark. She is stern, no longer a frivolous girl lost in flights of fancy and glittering dresses.

But she is also calculating where her father never was.

Sansa has learned that trust should rarely be given, that there are always those that are looking to exploit you. She has been exploited more times than she cares to count. When she looks out over Winterfell, she thinks of ways that she can rule fairly, like her father had.

But, she trusts no one. Arya is gone. Bran is King in the South. Jon is beyond the wall. Sansa is the Stark living in Winterfell, the Queen in the North. She wears her brother Robb’s mantle with pride. The North has a Queen instead of a King and this is fine.

She's more fit to rule than any man anyway, honed by the sharpest blades of deception, loss, and suffering.

So, she watches Theon, a relic of her past. She watches him from her perch, watches the way he strings his bow, the way he practices his favorite pastime. Aside from whoring anyway; she had heard that he was rather into that before…well…before a certain someone came along.

The connection she feels to him is vast and lonely. Sansa watches him from afar with cool blue eyes; he is dangerously good with the bow still. He had been clumsy at first, with his damaged hands. But he persevered. He grew stronger.

His hair flutters in the gentle wind, the line of his body strong and sure as he aims at his target. He hits the bullseye. She wishes he would smile, but he does not, never really does. He had a lovely smile, an overconfident one, once. She examines his profile, the fine cut of his face, the hair on his chin that he has finally begun to manicure.

Someone comes to stand beside her; Gendry. Her sister’s abandoned lover. The wood creaks as Gendry comes to a stop by the railing, causing Theon to pivot on his heel with the air of a startled deer, staring up at them with a nervous expression. Gendry nods towards Theon, saying to Sansa, “That one watches you, did you know?”

Sansa purses her lips. She has felt his eyes many times. “And I him.”

With those words, she turns and walks back into Winterfell, Theon staring after her, bow left hanging like broken butterfly in his hand.

* * *

 

* * *

There are times where she reaches for him.

She reaches out, caresses his face. Gazes into his eyes longer than necessary. 

The look he gives her is agonizing and he always turns away.

Sansa will not beg. How can he be so comforting, yet so distant? How can his presence soothe her soul, yet set it aflame? She wants more than what they have, their simple hugs and touches of their hands.

He is not ready and he is not willing to move beyond. Sansa blames the ghost that follows Theon on a chain.

* * *

 

* * *

Sometimes, she dreams of those nights. Those terrible, cold nights where she wept in pain and sorrow, her body broken and bleeding.

Her soul, angry.

These dreams, or rather, these memories do not dwell on the bad. These dreams quickly drift to the mornings where Reek would sometimes appear, just as the sun rose, to bring her tea and breakfast from the kitchen. How he would leave her a warm cloth to wipe her tears away with.

He never stayed. Too afraid to stay. Too afraid his master would find out he had offered comfort.

But; Sansa has never forgotten his small moments of kindness, the sorrow in his eyes as he tried to avoid her desperate stares. Everything about him belonged to the man that Sansa had been married off to. His will, his body, his identity.

Sansa had only given away her body and home. Theon had given so much more and continued to bend where Sansa only festered with cold fury.

It had almost been like they were married to the same man. A dreadful parody of marriage between three people.

What a horrid husband to share, if one had to be shared.

* * *

 

* * *

“Where is the Prince of Pyke?”

“He is in his chambers. We brought up hot water for the tub, Lady Sansa.”

“Good. I’m glad he is bathing regularly again,” Sansa replies, feeling pleased. He had been so against washing originally; the man that she has forgotten never let him bathe. “I will see to him, then.”

She strides towards his rooms; she knows where they are. The maid gapes after her in shock. “My Lady, it isn’t decent…”

Sansa does not stop to talk this through, has no patience anymore for drama or talking about frivolities. “I am no maid. If I recall, this allows me to visit whomever I please,” Sansa says curtly, not waiting to see the expression on the woman’s face.

Without knocking, she enters his room unannounced, immediately seeing him in the tub beside the fire. The water splashes violently as he flinches at her sudden arrival. He always flinches and Sansa wishes he wouldn’t.

“My Lady-” He looks mortified, looks down briefly at his nudity, eyes darting about for something to hide himself with.

“I have seen you naked before,” Sansa says “There is no reason to hide from me.”

“I’m…disgusting. Not fit for a lady to see,” he whispers, mouth full of rocks.

“You are not disgusting. Stop…stop hiding from me,” she says with exasperation as he tries to sink under the water in shame.

“You shouldn’t be here. What if someone saw you?”

“I go where I wish. I am Queen.”

“I’ll ruin your reputation, Sansa,” he breathes lowly, the tone he rarely uses anymore. He won’t look at her.

She imagines he used that tone on the women he fucked, once.

“Do you see him in me?” The question bursts from her lips, for it has been burning on her mind for some time, like a pan still hot from a fire. “Is that why you have been so cold?”

“I’m not…I’m…trying to protect you from…people talking. Why are you bringing this up again?” He has this lost look, this expression that makes her want to grab him and scream.

“You said you see him in everything. I’m asking you if I cause you pain,” Sansa demands firmly.

Theon gazes at her then, those sea-green eyes a storm of tragedy and loveliness. “No, my lady. You could never remind me of him. You saved me.”

Sansa frowns, clasps her hands as she looks down at him, sitting in his tub. Naked. The scars written into his skin, marks of ownership. He’d always wanted to belong when at Winterfell as a boy; he’d been claimed by the wrong person, in the end. “But, I didn’t save you,” she comments with confusion. “You saved me. You’ve got it wrong, Theon.”

He twitches, the way he does when he hears his name, because he hates the way it sounds, because his master hated hearing it. The twitch has gotten slighter with time, almost unnoticeable. But Sansa, she notices everything about him.

“Don’t,” he rasps, “I’m not…”

She’s going to hit him if he says, ‘I’m not Theon’, but instead he says, “I’m not wrong.”

Sansa nearly sags with relief; helping him to stop reacting to his name had taken so much time. She arches her eyebrows with skepticism. He’s a good talker, he knows how to talk his way around things, knows how to play the game. “How so?”

“Because,” he says tightly, a stricken look on his face, “if you had never come…to Winterfell…I would still be his. I would have been in a grave with him by now. Seeing you, when you came to marry him…it changed me. You were the light in the darkness. And I had been in darkness for so long. I couldn’t let him harm you. _I couldn’t let him_!”

They fall into silence and Sansa absorbs his words. They do not blame each other, for the things that happened back then. They are not to blame for the crimes committed against them, for all the ways they could not or would not help each other.

“That may be,” Sansa says carefully, “But in the end, you saved my life. You set us free. You did that, Theon. Not anyone else.”

They’ve been dancing around each other for months. A subtle dance, but one none the less. She pursues with purpose, he evades with soft, measured looks. Looks that display a quiet hunger, a tease by any other name. She wonders if he does it on purpose, if he wants to see how far she will go to claim him as her own.

Wicked boy.

In the darkness of her own room, she has thought of him, objectively. Men on a whole have not held appeal to her for so long. They are all cruel and they all want something. Things she is not willing to give. They want to dominate and possess and Sansa is _fed up with it all_. She has found herself wondering if there are any good men left in this world, aside from Jon, for she knows he is a good man.

She imagines, when alone in the dark, that Theon is submissive in the state he is in now. He's the kind that would lie on his back and let her touch his body, his hands waiting her command. He would not take, not unless she demanded.

Margaery Tyrell had once told her there were many ways to enjoy a man. There were even ways to enjoy a woman. If that is so, then there must still be ways for her to enjoy Theon, even if he believes himself to be lacking, with certain parts absent.

_“Not all women experience pleasure from the cock itself, you precious girl,” Margaery had laughed, bright and happy. “There are…other methods of love out there. Hands, fingers, tongues! Even, objects that have a phallic shape. You can be with a man that way as well, if it pleases him. They have a special place inside as well. Oh, look at that blush of yours.”_

Theon is looking at her now, like he knows where her mind has gone. He can’t possibly know, so Sansa does not let her face heat. She does as she intends instead, what they have been dancing around artfully for all this time.

She lets her robe fall away, beautiful and elegant. It slides down the curves of her body in waves, her red hair undone. Her skin is pale, like snow and she doesn’t bear the same number of scars that Theon has, at least not visibly. Her most painful scars have always been in her soul, in her mind.

He sighs when he sees her, desire in his gaze. Theon tries to hide that look, tries to not let her see, but Sansa can see it plain as day. He cannot hide from her, because they are one. They are one in suffering and in surviving, in living. They cannot be parted and she will not let him keep this horrid distance between them.

He gazes at her and wishes…oh he wishes.

Sansa sees the desire reflected in his eyes, for the ache to be close to someone you trust, someone who understands the darkness and agony, the emptiness inside. She wants to crawl into him and find all those broken pieces of him, wants to show him the broken pieces of her soul as well.

To show him how those pieces fit together.

Theon looks sorrowful as he says, “You should not be here, Sansa. You will have to marry soon; you cannot have the likes of me blemishing your name…”

Oh, what a laugh! Sansa is not amused. “If these old men force me to marry any time soon, I will throw myself from the highest tower. I will not be forced, not ever again. I choose you to warm my bed. What do you say to that, Theon Greyjoy?”

A challenge enters her tone and she tries to stand there unabashedly, naked before him. Chin lifted.

“I am no man,” Theon says brokenly, his eyes aching in their longing for her.

“You are exactly what I want,” Sansa breathes, confident. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

She loves his eyes, the way he looks at her like she’s a woman. Not cattle. Not something to use and abuse. Not the daughter of a ‘traitor’. Not a shy little girl who thinks she knows what she wants. “Sansa,” he whispers softly, eyes traveling over her skin slowly, devouring her.

Her stomach heats with a feeling that she has only felt when alone in her own bed. She has not felt that with anyone.

Even though she knows it is dangerous territory, she finds herself saying, “I’ve heard that you are rather good with your mouth.”

A strange little grin shapes his lips; bitter and self-depreciating. “And who is saying that?”

He must know. He’ll never admit it.

_She can still see it in her mind, plain as day. The memory is sharp and cold, icy. A sick feeling almost overcomes her as she brings it to the front of her mind. She can still see Ramsay Bolton sneering down at her, his cock losing hardness. His eyes are piercing, cruel. “You are rather terrible at this, aren’t you? Stop crying or I’ll really give you something to weep about.”_

_He smirks then, that sharp, wolf-like smirk that screams misery. “I know! You should ask Reek about how it’s done. He had this awful arrogant mouth, once, I’m sure you’re familiar. Yes? Good. Anyway, I’ve considered taking his tongue_ so _many times. Do you know why I haven’t? Guess. Guess right and I’ll leave you alone tonight.”_

 _Sansa sniffles, tries to put on a brave face. She doesn’t know, she doesn’t know why the madman does anything that he does. “Because he couldn’t call you ‘master’ then, if you took his tongue." Her eyes harden hatefully, because she_ knows _. "And you like hearing him say it.”_

_He backhands her hard and blood spills into her mouth. Coppery and thick. “Accurate, but wrong answer. He’s rather skilled with his mouth and I simply won’t part with his tongue.”_

_It's almost unfathomable, to think of Theon Greyjoy servicing this man and taking his cock into his mouth. Sansa feels ill inside, feels like crying for a whole other reason entirely._

_Ramsay is looking down at her with that unamused expression in his eyes, half-lidded. “I guess that means you lose the game. Well, carry on,” he gestures to his cock, taking a sip from his wine as he looks away. “I’m almost not sure who is suffering more here, you or me.”_

“It doesn’t matter who said it,” she says, looking down at Theon. “Not anymore.”

He looks away, pained. Always pained, so different from the arrogant young man he had once been. Somehow, Sansa feels closer to this version of Theon, feels a kinship that can only be built within suffering. “Lady Sansa, you don’t know what you’re asking for. I’m not fit-”

She interrupts him calmly, her pale skin chilling in the room, nipples perking up with the cold. “I want you to stay with me tonight,” she whispers.

She wants him to stay with her until the end of days, until they are both just bodies in the ground, until they are only memories. Sansa wants him for a companion, if nothing else. No one understands her, not like he does. No man could ever understand her now. No man but Theon Greyjoy, for he has suffered things that go beyond the worst that a woman could suffer from in war.

Yet he still stands, tries to be proud despite the shame that still haunts his eyes.

“I want you to be with me,” she says, so quietly she almost can’t hear herself speaking. “I’ve seen the looks you have given me. Don’t you want me as well? Or have I completely misunderstood you?”

With a pause, he stands up from the tub, water dripping down his flesh. “You have not.”

Her heart is beating hard in her chest and she scolds herself, because she cannot be nervous now. She feels so small, standing before him. She can barely breathe, feeling her heart in her throat as she gazes at him. He's so close, yet so far, just beyond reach. He's holding himself back and she wishes he wouldn't. She can see it in his heart-wrenching eyes.

Theon dries himself with a towel and slowly, carefully approaches her. Sansa suddenly laughs nervously, looks away with embarrassment. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to do, now that I have your attention.”

“Sit on the bed, my Lady. Don’t be afraid,” he says in that low tone that she adores. That tone that softly scrapes at her ears. “I would never hurt you.”

She sits on the bed, flushed despite her desire to not look embarrassed. He watches her, his eyes on hers before slowly drifting down to the secret place between her thighs. “I know,” she murmurs.

He slowly sinks to the ground before her and Sansa's mouth goes dry. He's staring up at her and she feels like the world is narrowing around the two of them. Nothing else exists. She can only think of him, his soft, careful hands. Those lips that will soon be hers. Her flesh feels heated and she tries to not blush. 

Of course, she does not know what is happening behind those sea-green eyes, hidden in that gaze. 

As he kneels between her spread legs, Theon realizes that he lied earlier.

While Sansa herself does not remind him of Ramsay, this act does.

_Those pale grey eyes are staring into him, straight past his flesh and bone. There is nothing there that the other man cannot see. He knows Reek inside out, created him from broken pieces. From blood and gore._

_“If there’s one thing you are good at, Reek, it is this. Theon Greyjoy would be so proud; you’re probably as good as those whores he always enjoyed. Alas, you can’t enjoy whores, my sweet Reek. You can only enjoy me.”_

Theon touches her skin gently, reverently. Afraid she will break, but knows that she won’t.

Theon presses the flat of his tongue against her aching core and Sansa gasps, her head falling back. Her hand tangles in Theon’s soft curls, gentle and adoring, not possessive. Not like _his_ hands.

In Theon’s head, Ramsay groans, _“Good dog.”_

He traces his name into her swollen flesh, gentle kitten licks into her soft insides. He tries to not think about which name he writes there, isn't sure it is _the right one_. She covers her beautiful eyes with embarrassment and she gasps, “Theon.”

All he hears is ‘ _you’re mine’_ from a mouth with sharp white teeth and cruel grin. If he closes his eyes, he can still see that mouth, the tight twist of those lips when the other man tries to not laugh, tries to keep a sadistic smile down. Like that will change what he is, what Theon _knows_ he is.

Theon tries to push the thoughts away, tries to push _him_ away in his mind. He thrusts his tongue within Sansa and she whines, red dusting across her cheeks. He’ll give her pleasure where no man ever has. He wants to, he’s not the selfish man he once was. She tastes sweet, leaking wetness into his mouth and he sucks it down hungrily. Moans into her, delighting in the soft sounds that she makes.

He hums into her flesh, buries his face between her thighs, inhales the scent of her womanly parts. She’s so soft and delicate and her legs tremble. She’s covering her eyes and that’s fine, she’s embarrassed of how she feels, how he makes her feel down there. He eats her, like he would a delicacy and the sloppy noises he makes sends lust spiraling into her. Sansa gently wraps her legs around his shoulders, brings him closer to her.

He's got an eager tongue and her soft petals are dripping with his saliva and her own desire. She's wet for him, dripping, her juices coating his face and he revels in it. He ponders that perhaps, if she's willing, she'll sit on his face, another time. Maybe she'll dominate him with her sweet, sweet core, ride his tongue until she explodes and drips into his waiting mouth.

He groans at the image it gives him.

Theon uses his nose to nuzzle her small, flushed bud while he lets the tip of his tongue enter her teasingly. She coos, hips flinching. If he still smiled, he would have grinned into her cunt. He uses his finger then, inserts it gently, rubbing her wetness around her heated flesh. His finger tips glisten with her want and he gently drills into her with two fingers while his tongue presses down on her needy button. 

She's so ready for him, her cunt opening under his fingers so easily. She gasps his name, shifts her hips, rolls them desperately against his fingers and tongue.

Heat coils in his belly, low and deep. He may not have a cock, but he can still feel want and lust. He’s spilled his seed before, even mangled as he is, with-

His mind stutters out, like a fire being doused. His tongue pauses. His fingers freeze.

_Those teeth are in his neck, strong hands on his hips, claiming. Filthy, demeaning words on a sharp tongue. The scent of wine and hound. That other part, touching places inside of him that shame him, filling him completely…_

Theon shudders, feels ill. 

Despite it all, Sansa sees the look Theon’s face, the sudden glaze to his eyes. The tension that comes to his shoulders. She pulls away from him slowly, carefully slides off the edge of the bed, kneels on the ground beside him, shivering. She places a delicate hand on each side of his face and she presses her forehead to his desperately. She can smell herself on his mouth.

Her voice is tinged with pain, sadness. She knows where his mind has gone. “Stay with me. Please. Don’t go to him. Leave him in the grave where he belongs.”

Theon blinks at her words, at her tone. Shades of brilliant green and blue stare back at Sansa, no longer dulled with dark thought. He blinks a few times until he only sees her, beautiful crimson hair and sharp cheekbones, fox like eyes. Does not see grey, like a winter storm. “I’m here,” Theon croaks, ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry, Sansa."

They stay like that, kneeling on the ground together in his chamber, both naked as the day they were born. Staring into each other’s eyes. No lies are between them, nothing to hide. Suffering knows suffering and their hearts beat in the same rhythm. Her hands stroke up and down his arms soothingly, tries to keep him grounded.

Sansa breaks the silence with a slight smile, a shy ducking of her head. “I’m getting cold sitting here naked, you know.”

Theon flushes, eyes sliding over her form. “My apologies, Lady Sansa,” his gaze slides over to his bed. "Do you...?"

She grabs his hand and interlocks their fingers. Sansa does not flinch at the stumps on his hands, for they make him who he is, every vice he ever had flayed away until only Theon remained. Her eyes slant towards the bed as well before she whispers in his ear, “Keep me warm.”

They slide under the warm covers together, hands slowly exploring each other’s body. Sansa’s hands are always gentle, like she is comforting a scared animal. Her fingers gently trace the scars on his body, the many scars, but she only sees Theon’s strength in these marks. She does not see the man who put them there, not the way that Theon does.

She wonders if he only sees Ramsay reflected at him in the mirror and hopes that someday that will change. She hopes that someday, Theon will let him go.

Theon holds her in his arms and for the first time in a long time, she feels safe in the embrace of a man.

“You’re perfect,” he says to her with his low, rough voice, his breath in her hair. “You should be with anyone else. Anyone but me. You deserve much better.”

“My soul only wants yours,” she whispers into the skin of his neck.

Outside, the cold winds howl, but the Queen in the North is warm and the Prince of Pyke is safe in her arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are loved. Hope you enjoyed and I love hearing your thoughts XD
> 
> I've never written Theonsa before, OMG. Hopefully this was okay.


End file.
